I’d been hoping to get out for a day’s birding today, but I was in so much pain when I woke up that it took me about an hour even to get up and dressed. Then some other bits of nonsense cropped up, and before I knew where I was, it was too late to go to anywhere interesting.
All this made me so grumpy that I decided to vent my spleen on my laser printer, which unexpectedly refused to print from my Mac yesterday, though it still accepted jobs from R’s Windows computer, and both our iPhones. I’ll spare you the details of my troubleshooting, which took quite a long time even after I’d run through all the most likely solutions, but it turned out in the end that there’s a conflict between the HP printer software and the current Mac iOS which was causing the computer to believe that the printer’s safety certificate expired on 31st December. It was news to me that the printer even had a safety certificate, and even bigger news that if I was prepared to woman up and ignore repeated warnings of imminent disaster and visit the printer’s web site, I could simply write it a new certificate and set it going again. By this time I was in such a bad temper that I barely cared if the entire system crashed and burned, so I pushed past the warnings and did exactly that.
Problem. Solved.
Feeling like a computing guru – even though all I actually did was find a forum post by someone who’d already thrashed through the same problem, and follow their instructions – I went off to Stratford with R and stomped along the river, grumbling on and on the entire way about how I’d rather have been somewhere else. Rather than telling me to pull myself together, which wouldn’t have been unreasonable, R (who’s learned a few things over nearly four decades of dealing with my moods) chose instead to keep telling me how clever I was, until eventually the charm offensive worked, and my ruffled feathers settled back into place.
R: L2, C3, D15.
